I growl back.
“You!” Jordan’s fingers are long, like a surgeon’s, and when he points at me I feel like an accused witch in a seventeenth century Salem trial. “You tried to kill my Muffin again.”
“Oh, brother,” I mutter. “OW!” I squeal as the paramedic puts something that stings all over a bite. The physical pain doesn’t distract me from the indignity of being unfairly accused yet again.
He turns to James, red-faced and righteous. “When we went on our date, she threw rocks at my mama’s little dog! And now she she tried to drown Muffin!”
“She saved your dog!” Andrew says, starting to stand up and confront Jordan, who is shaking as hard as his mama’s teacup chihuahua now.
I reach up with my good hand and pull Andrew back to the chair next to mine. “Not worth it. Don’t even try to reason with him.”
“Hold on,” Andrew says, halting. “Date? Did he say date? You dated him?”
“Yes. For work.”
Whatever laughter Andrew has been holding back comes rushing out, his body bent in half, his gloriously unclothed chest and back on display as he lets it all out.
“And—” Andrew gasps “—I was worried about...” He’s so amused by all of it that I can’t help but join in, our laughter more than just relief. We’re joyfully celebrating the unspoken brilliance of living each minute and taking what life throws our way. No more guessing. No more fear.
Not when we’re together.
And then he sweeps in for an exuberant kiss that is so nakedly passionate and marvelously delicious that whatever pain I’m in fades away in the presence of his whole self.
In the sunlight.
In July.
As Jordan shakes James’ hand and bows again, I overhear him say, “I’m happy to do your next son’s wedding as a thank you to you for your courage, but you’ll have to keep her away from my Muffin.”
I’m about to give Jordan a piece of my mind when a great shhh-shhh-shhh begins in the distance in the sky. We all stare up, following the source of the sound.
The black helicopter has no markings of any kind as it descends onto the lawn, the whoop-whoop-whoop of the blades making the air feel like it’s sliced into pieces, as if sound itself were being chopped. The helicopter pilot’s face is obscured as he comes into focus. This is not an Anterdec helicopter, and yet in all the images I’ve seen of the President of the United States of America’s helicopter, there’s always been a circular seal. A sign.
A marker.
Declan excuses himself from a talk with his dad and my mom and marches with determination toward us, Marie wending her way through the crowd to intervene.
“What is going on?” she shouts. You have to raise your voice, because the chopper is so close, engines still on.
Declan cups his hand and bends to her, saying something in her ear.
Her eyes go wide with exhilaration and her hands clap over her mouth.
“No!”
“Yes!” he calls back.
“You—he—he is here?” Marie screams, giddy. “This will save the wedding! No one will remember naked Amanda now!”
“I will,” Andrew shouts.
My mom blushes.
“But they’ll remember that the President of the United States came to my—er, your—wedding! Everyone! Everyone!” Marie shouts, trying to get the crowd’s attention. “The President of the United States is in that helicopter! He’s a guest at the wedding!”
“We need to go talk to him first!” Declan shouts to Marie, his voice loud enough for me to hear over the blades. He pulls Shannon out from the cluster of people hovering around the pool.
They do not stop. Shannon’s dress is swept up in the rush of air, her train heavy and twisting, her tartan plaid accents ruined by the blast of air flow. Shannon and Declan share a look of anticipation, an Are you sure? interlude that they both confirm with twin nods of determination.
Marie shoos them, her wrists flicking like shotguns. “Go! Go! Of course you need to greet him. My goodness!” She turns to me with a look of exaltation. “Please tell me Jessica Coffin is seeing this!” she begs. “And Monica Raleigh!”
“Monica who?’
“Steve’s mother!”
“Oh.”
“Bet she’ll never have the President of the United States at Steve’s wedding! She brags about knowing a state senator. Hah!”
Shannon and Declan have put me in the worst position possible right now. As they both make their way to the helicopter, I know what they’re about to do.
Andrew has his arm around me, helping to keep the blanket about my shoulders, and he leans in and says, “They’re headed to Vegas for a quickie wedding. This is delicious to watch. Marie is about to get five lifetimes of karma.”
All I can do is lean against his shoulder and rest.
And cringe.
Declan boards first, the wind picking up his kilt and oh, sweet creator, he most certainly is commando. I thought Shannon was exaggerating when she talked about the size of Declan’s, ah...ego, but she was telling the truth.
The whole truth.
The whole long, thick truth.
I reach over for Andrew’s thigh and slide my hand up, meeting the soft flesh of, um, confirmation that he, too, went authentic. Truthiness never felt so...
“Is that an offer?” he shouts, his hand slipping to my ribs as I scramble to grab the sliding blanket. Immediately, he rights it, wrapping me protectively in the only item that keeps me from reliving my public nakedness. I give his thigh a squeeze and he kisses my temple, his cheek resting against me, his body relaxing into mine.